


War's Glorious Art

by orphan_account



Series: All Your Art of War [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A gift for the lovely queen, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 17:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 17,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8762968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He looked at himself again, and felt his chest ache with something profound; something that choked the joy of finally being in the midst of things--was this how Bucky had felt, seeing himself in uniform for the first time? Did he have this looming sense of darkness gnawing at the back of his mind, that this could be the last thing he ever wore?





	1. In Freedom We're Born

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenofthewips (lilithduvare)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithduvare/gifts).



> First and foremost, this fic was hardcore betaed by the amazing [Messiah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messiah), without whom this fic would surely not be half of what it is. So this is, in part, dedicated to her.
> 
> This is also dedicated to [littleblackfox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox), whose fic Breathless inspired me while writing. She listened to my ideas and made me feel that my work was not as crappy as I saw it. Fox, words cannot convey the love I have for you and your incredible work.
> 
> \--
> 
> One to destroy, is murder by law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, "War's glorious art", and gives immortal fame. - Edward Young

The needles and searing pain were nearly unbearable, but Steve was determined to live. When the chamber doors opened, he looked the same. Putting on the shirt he had been handed, he proved his strength by subduing Kruger before the German could kill Dr. Erskine. Steve was then shoved out of the room to be examined while Peggy, Dr. Erskine, and Colonel Phillips discussed what to do with him.

He waited, pacing the hallway like a caged animal, wringing his hands. It wasn't long before one of the doors opened and Peggy walked out, closing the door behind her.

“I'm sorry Steve,” she said, pain in her voice, “but the SSR can't accept you.”

“Why not?” Steve did his best to keep his voice calm. Peggy didn't answer, but lead him back into the room.

“-Stark and Agent Carter to London.” Phillips said to Erskine. The colonel took one look at Steve and said, “I asked for an army, and all I got was you.” 

Steve opened his mouth, his hands clenching into fists. This wasn’t supposed to happen, he wasn’t supposed to look exactly the same. He was certainly stronger, Kruger’s body was proof of that. He could fight, he could be flown out tomorrow and--

“You are not enough.”

Steve fought to keep himself from yelling that the SSR should accept him, that the serum had worked, just not in the way it was expected to. He may still be small on the outside, but he had grown in strength and felt that he had changed. Dr. Erskine gave Steve a pitying look as he followed Phillips and Peggy out the door. Steve underwent a series of medical tests and examinations before he was allowed to leave, released like a fish back into a lake.

Steve was surprised to find the Buick waiting for him, but told the driver his street - “Irving Street” - and soon found himself standing in the kitchen of the shared apartment. Mindlessly, he went to the fruit bowl and picked up an apple, taking a bite before walking into the bedroom. It was cramped and cluttered, and just like everything else in the apartment, it had a way of feeling, somehow, too small. There were stacks of books by the door, a chair pushed up to a wall, a large window above the bed, which was itself a mess. Steve walked over to his side of the room and nearly tripped over his bag; crammed full of pencils, erasers, paper, and artwork in various stages of completion. The books were mostly about art, but there were a lot of science fiction ones too; _Brave New World_ , _It Can't Happen Here_ , _The Iron Heel_ , _The Moon is Down_ , and _Gladiator_ were among them, and there were pulps scattered throughout the room; _Astounding Stories_ , _Amazing Stories_ , _Marvel Science Stories_ , _Planet Stories_ , _Startling Stories_. He picked up a copy of the April 1938 _Astounding_ , chuckling at the cover illustration.

Studying the cover, Steve remembered that the man's beard had always looked greenish-blue, an effect of colorblindness. Now, however, Steve saw that the beard's true color was a reddish-orange. He looked at his mostly eaten apple, noticing what was left of the fruit's red skin. He could literally see red; the serum had affected his eyesight. He held the pulp even closer, laughing at himself. After setting the pulp among the other magazines, Steve retrieved his bag and dug out his set of Mongols, unsnapped the box, and pulled out a red colored pencil. Grabbing a sketch pad, he set the apple down on the bed and began drawing, watching how the light cast shadows on the fruit. When the picture was finished, he signed and dated it, then closed the book, set it on the chair, and ate the rest of the apple.

_Rejected by the SSR,_ he thought. _What am I gonna do?_

Steve moved his bag to the side of the chair, ensuring that all his Mongols were in their box. He soon stood in his skivvies, his shirt on a stack of books and his pants folded over the back of the chair. Drawing the heavy curtain over the window and shutting the light off, Steve had to feel his way back to his side of the room. He climbed into bed, mentally planning out the next day; bathe, eat, get the mail, figure out someway to help the war effort. His own words came echoing back to him: "There are men lying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them." He sighed, rolled onto his side, feeling his body curl around the empty space as he drifted off to sleep.


	2. For My Country

After a quick shower and an even quicker breakfast, Steve got the mail and returned home. Sitting in a chair in the kitchen, he was surprised at himself for making it so far. He had been so excited about the letter that he had nearly opened it right in front of the post office.

_“Steve,”_ the writing was small yet neat, _“Your last letter was great, I look forward to your next one. Italy's the same as ever, sunny and warm, you'd like it here. Funny thing happened the other day. Bunch of the men were talking about their sweethearts, and Murphy asks if I've got anyone special back home. “Yeah,” I say, “pretty little thing. Smart, cooks real well. Got two left feet though.” What would they think, if they knew? Thanks for the Luckies, I got them today. Cigs are the currency of war, and anything from chocolate to clothes can be swapped in exchange for cigarettes. I'll hear from you soon, won't I?”_

Steve set the letter on the table, grabbing the only other piece of mail he had received. The return address was for George Biddle. Carefully tearing the envelope open, Steve read the letter contained inside.

_“Steven Rogers, You have been recommended by the War Department Art Advisory Board as one of a small group of outstanding American artists to go to an active war theatre, and there to obtain a graphic record of the war. This program will entail the United States government sending you to an active war theatre, where you will be assigned to two Technical Sergeants and the care of an officer while in the field, to ensure your safety as a civilian. If you would care to join the program, please respond to this letter no later than the end of the month, March thirty-first.”_

After rereading the letter twice and calming his racing heart, Steve folded the paper and placed it back in the envelope. Now he had something to do, some way to help the war effort. He wrote a response to his first letter, V-mailing it to ensure that it would reach it's destination. Then he responded to the second letter: _“Mr. Biddle, I would be honored to join your art program, and assist in the creation of art for a war record.”_

In the following days, Steve went to Camp Lehigh and retrieved his things, saw an exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum of ceramics made by soldiers at USO camps, and drew for the _Brooklyn Eagle_. It wasn't until the twentieth of March that he got another letter from Biddle, telling him that there had been more areas added to the program: the Caribbean and South America, West Africa, England and Iceland, Northwest Africa, the Near East, India, Burma, and China. The letter also told Steve that he had been assigned to the Great Britain theater, which shared its London headquarters with the Icelandic theater. Steve didn't hear from Biddle again until May, when he received a letter telling him that he would be leaving for London on the twenty-fifth, at the New York Port of Embarkation. The Port was on 58th Street, not too far from their tenement.

On the day of leave, Steve packed a suitcase and headed down to 58th. After choosing what supplies he wanted from multiple options, he boarded the ocean liner that would take him to England. The trip wasn't as long as Steve thought it would be, and some time after the arrival they docked in London. Headquarters was located on a street called East Harding. Steve wanted to confirm the stories he had heard over the radio and in pre-movie newsreels.

His wish was granted sooner than he thought. The three artists stationed in the Great Britain theater were placed in the same living quarters; a flat called Pemberton House on the street just down from headquarters. Steve had entered his flat and was intent on unpacking when there was a knock on the door. A tall, broad man stood before Steve when he answered.

“I heard you come in and thought I should introduce myself.” The stranger limped forward and held out a hand. “I'm August King, I live just next door.” 

Steve noticed that the stranger had an accent not too dissimilar from his own. August stared at him with a funny look on his face and an uncertain smile that sent Steve’s heart pounding.

Steve extended his hand slowly. “Steve Rogers.” He said, making sure his voice sounded as deep as possible.

The funny look on August’s face turned into a sheepish one as he swept his hat off, like he might do before a lady, clutching it to his chest before taking Steve’s hand gently.

“I was going to go to the National Gallery for some inspiration. Do you want to come with me?” He released Steve’s hand.

Steve glanced back into the bedroom, at the opened suitcase on the bed. He tried to make himself bigger by standing on his tiptoes.

“There'll be time to unpack later. Come on.” So Steve and August walked to Chancery Lane and took the short Underground ride to the National Gallery. Out of all the pieces still there, Steve marveled at the vibrant red, deep blue, and rich green of the Arnolfini portrait. He found August studying _The Battle of San Romano_ , the action captured by brush and paint.

“Pretty incredible, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “It sure is.” He and August saw other paintings and works of art, though the most valuable pieces had been removed for safekeeping elsewhere.

After spending an hour at the museum, seeing other paintings and talking, they headed back to the Underground station at Trafalgar Square.

“Have you met your officer yet?” They were on their way back to the flat, and when Steve answered that he hadn't, August offered to take him to headquarters so he could be introduced.

“After I finish unpacking, then we'll go, alright?”

Steve breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back against the closed door of the flat. He went to the bed and opened his suitcase, taking out his bloomers and quickly placing them in a drawer, along with his socks. As he stacked shirts and pants on top of each other, his thoughts wandered to what Bucky would think of all this, of him being in the middle of things. Sure, it wasn’t a battlefield, but it was still an active theater of war.

Steve thought of his mother, of how she wouldn’t want him getting hurt. He thought of the father he had never met, never known. Who had died fighting a war meant to end all wars, and here he was, his son, drawing the second war that involved the whole world. Would Joseph have accepted him, as Sarah had? Steve liked to think that he would have.

\--

“Lieutenant Hayes, this is Steve Rogers. He's here for-”

“The Army's art program, yes, I was told you would be in my command. St. John! Rolland!” The elderly man called into another room, from which two Technical Sergeants emerged.

“These men will ensure that you are protected in the field. They've both been in London for a year now.” St. John gave Steve an officer's uniform. “You'll wear this in the field,” he explained.

“Well, if that's all, we’ll be off,” August smiled.

“Not so fast King. Both you and Rogers will report here at six o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, sir.” 

When they finally left, a light drizzle had started, painting London in its runny watercolors.

“Are you in the Army, August? You called Hayes “sir”. And I noticed your limp.”

“Yes, I was promoted from Corporal to Captain after being recruited for this program.” August opened the front door, and they walked down the hall and climbed the stairs in silence, Steve following August. The men fished into their pockets for the keys to their rooms, and after both doors had been unlocked, August turned to Steve.

“Thanks for coming with me to the Gallery.”

“Thanks for offering me the opportunity to go with you.” Steve smiled, suppressing a laugh.

“Goodnight Rogers.”

“‘Night King.”

Steve breathed deeply as he entered the flat and locked the door behind him. 

August was nice, stared too much at times, but nice. Standing in the bright lights of the gallery, there had been a second where the slick of his dark hair and the width of his shoulders and the shadows beneath his eyes reminded Steve of Bucky, and perhaps that was why August stared, because he saw someone else in Steve.

Steve wandered further into the dark apartment, flicking on the lights as he stepped in the bedroom. He pulled the blackouts across the window, knowing better than to open the window with the lights still on.

He undressed and carefully folded every piece of clothing, but it wasn’t until he doubled over to step out of his pants that he stopped, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Small, skeletal, scanty.

He stood a bit straighter. Small shoulders, thin arms, wide bony hips. Illinois was a mountainous region compared to his chest, which was for the better. He had never been able to grow a beard, but perhaps the serum would enable him to now. Back at the Stark Expo recruitment center, he had barely come up to the soldier's nose.

Steve glanced at the uniform on the bed and couldn’t help but smile when the shirt fit. His joy quickly soured when he discovered that the pants were loose. He grabbed his belt, pulling it through the loops and buckling it hard after tucking his shirt in. He turned and twisted in front of the mirror, trying to get an accurate view of his profile. For once, the loose fabric around his crotch worked in his favor. There was a non combatant patch sewn below the left shoulder of the jacket, above the elbow, marking him as a civilian.

He looked at himself again, and felt his chest ache with something profound; something that choked the joy of finally being in the midst of things--was this how Bucky had felt, seeing himself in uniform for the first time? Did he have this looming sense of darkness gnawing at the back of his mind, that this could be the last thing he ever wore?

He had an idea, and before he could stop himself, had knocked on August's door and asked a favor of the Philadelphian. August agreed, and in five minutes was on one knee in Steve's flat, his Kodak Bantam held up to his eye, taking Steve's picture. With thanks Steve saw August out, then changed out of his uniform and fell off to sleep.

At six o'clock Steve and August were in their uniforms and presented themselves to Hayes.

“You are to sketch, draw, or paint anything related to the war.” Hayes said as he paced up and down the line of men standing before him. His eyes narrowed when he got to Steve, who squirmed under his gaze, almost like he knew. “St. John and Rolland will go with Rogers. King, you are to accompany them for protection.”

The city was bathed in the sun's warmth when the four men left the building on East Harding.

“I know we're supposed to draw things related to the war. There’s just so much, I don’t know where to begin.” Steve said. _I never expected war to be like this, look like this, smell like it does._

“I know somewhere we could draw.” August took them to a building on Carter Lane. He walked through the door, down a hall, down two flights of stairs, and was halfway through another hall when-

“Hey, you're not supposed to be here!” Steve turned around to see a young woman at the opposite end of the hall. Her hair was blonde and loosely curled. August spoke before Steve could.

“It's all right, Lorraine, they're with me. And we're with the Army.”

“But not the SSR. You know headquarters location is not to be shared with those outside the Reserve.”

“Look, we just need something to draw, then we'll be out of here, I promise. You won't tell Phillips that we were here.”

“Only if you do my portrait.” She crossed her arms over her chest, jutting her chin out, almost definitely.

August laughed. “It can't be official, but I'll do it.”

Lorraine walked in front of August and pushed open the double doors. “Welcome to the SSR London headquarters, boys.”

The four men filed inside the large room, Steve bringing up the rear. He saw men crowded around a table, talking in hushed tones as they pointed at various locations on a map. Steve moved to get closer, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, it was August.

“They don't like outsiders prying. We barely got in here to begin with.” he said.

“Are you and Lorraine seeing each other?” Steve gave August a knowing smile.

August’s face reddened. “No, I knew her from the Army. She was a nurse before the SSR hired her and made her a private, in addition to being Colonel Phillips' secretary.”

“Captain King, I'm ready.”

August called over his shoulder, “Coming Lorraine.” He turned back to Steve. “This won't take long. You should find someone to draw.” Steve made sure August was preoccupied with Lorraine before heading deeper into the room. He was rounding a corner when he bumped into someone.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Steve’s heart skipped a beat, his tongue turned to a lead weight because--

Peggy Carter looked back at him wide-eyed, her lips tugged up in a smile.

“Steve. What are you doing here?”

He averted his gaze. “I was chosen to join the Army art program, and just arrived yesterday.”

“I see. I’m glad to hear that you’re finally in the Army. Well, I have to get going, but it was nice seeing you again Steve.” She turned to leave.

“Peggy, could I draw you?” She turned around to fix him with her dark eyes.

“T-the Army wants us to draw things related to the war, and since the SSR is working with the Army I thought maybe…”

“All right, I’ll meet you at St. Paul’s at six thirty. Don’t you dare be late.”

With a parting promise of dinner later that night, August left Lorraine and caught up with the others just as they were leaving the building. “So, how’d it go? Did ya find anyone to draw?” Steve nodded in response to August’s questions.

“Yeah, I’m meeting Agent Carter at St. Paul’s later this evening.”

August gave a low whistle. “You’re a lucky man. I’ve never known someone who got to draw Miss Peggy Carter.”

“Yeah? Well I guess I’m the first.” Steve said, trying and failing to hide the blush that had spread across his face.

Steve met Peggy at six thirty on the dot, his heart pounding in his chest. They walked inside the cathedral, where Steve suggested that Peggy stand on the spiraling stairs. They enjoyed each other’s company in silence, exchanging a smile whenever Steve looked up from his sketchpad.

“I’m supposed to send all my art back to the States, but you can keep this, if you’d like.” Steve handed the portrait to Peggy, who accepted it carefully.

“Thank you, Steve.” As she kissed his cheek, Steve caught the sweet scent of her Coty perfume.

As Steve crawled into bed that night, he felt the spring-filled mattress creak and dip with his weight as he allowed himself to be swallowed up in the hollowness of the too-large bed. He had become acclimated to sleeping in colder, larger spaces.

His thoughts turned to Bucky as he drifted in between sleep and consciousness. Where was _he_ sleeping, in a foxhole in Italy? Steve sighed and rolled over, clutching the blankets closer to him in a fruitless attempt to keep himself warm.


	3. I Know One Who Loves Me

When August invited Steve over for breakfast that morning, the topic of conversion turned to something Steve wasn’t expecting: religion. It was Tuesday, and August had been going to Eucharist at St. Dunstan’s in the West since his arrival in England.

“Do you want to come with me? I know it’s not your Christ Chapel, and it’s not my St. Paul’s Episcopal, but I like it. You don’t have to come, I just thought I would ask.”

Steve finished his bite of egg before responding. “No, I’ll come. I haven’t been to church in a while, so I think this will be good for me.”

After breakfast Steve retrieved his mother’s wooden rosary from the dresser and held on to it. Sarah Rogers had been a good Anglican woman, even if she had become lapsed with Joseph’s death and having to raise Steve on her own. It had been at St. Stephen’s that Sarah had met Winifred Barnes. The families had stayed in Bedford-Stuyvesant, even through Sarah’s death. It was his mother’s lapsed religious attendance that led to Steve’s current less-than-devotional state with his religion. After Sarah’s death in 1938, the boys moved to Red Hook, to their tenement on Irving Street. It was that tenement that Bucky had left early on that cold, foggy January morning.

Steve looked at himself in the mirror. He swept a hand across his hair and straightened his tie. Now he looked presentable, at least in his own eyes. He locked the door to his flat and pocketed the key. August met him outside the building, and the two walked to the church.

Upon entering, they slipped into a pew in the back, not wanting to draw attention to themselves. When the service was over, the pair walked back to the flat. Steve thanked August for inviting him before they retreated into their own apartments.

Once he ensured that he was alone, Steve locked the door and walked into the bedroom, removed his mother’s rosary and replaced it in his suitcase. Before closing the luggage, Steve removed a pack of Elliot’s and a lighter from the depths of the case. He replaced the suitcase on the floor, placed his jacket on the back of a chair, and sat on the bed.

With a trembling hand, Steve opened the pack and took out an Elliot, placing the thin, white tube between his teeth. He steadied his hand enough to light the cigarette, the once-familiar taste of lighter fluid mixed with various herbs coming back to him. He exhaled the smoke through his nose, remembering how Bucky had taught him one autumn night. Bucky had pulled another one over on him, telling Steve he wasn’t hungry so Steve could eat his half of dinner while he went outside and smoked, the nicotine suppressing his appetite. Steve had finished dinner and done the dishes, then went outside to join him, a pack of Elliot’s in hand. He hadn’t known then that the side effects could be so freeing, especially now, when the side effects were why he was smoking.

He lay on his back, stretching out over the expense of the bed. This way he could feel his lungs expand and contract as he breathed, his ribs moving up and down with his lungs. _Always had weak lungs,_ he thought, blowing out more smoke, _but not anymore. Not since Erskine--_

Steve sat up, removed the cigarette from his mouth, and held it between his fingers, rolling it slightly as he thought. Erskine hadn’t ever contacted him since the experiment, he hadn’t even tried. Steve lay back down, allowing himself to relax. He placed the cigarette back in his mouth, waiting for the side effects to kick in. It didn’t take long.

The door opened, and in walked a man. He was tall, dark, and handsome. He had just come back from work, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his white collared shirt rolled up, ink stains on his fingers. He set his jacket on a living room chair and went into the bathroom, where Steve heard the sound of running water and the whistling of “Only Forever”. He found himself humming along, until the water stopped, and the man stood above him. Steve raised himself into a sitting position. The man took a long look over him, as if trying to memorize him. Steve wanted to back away, but was paralyzed by a mix of fear and wonder.

“You know what I’ve said about those cigarettes, Stevie. They’re not good for you.”

Steve’s mouth curved into a smile, he couldn’t help himself. He removed the cigarette and crushed it in his palm, tossing it into the trash can by the bathroom.

“Buck, you’re back.”

“‘Course I’m back, I told you I would be. A little late maybe, but I’m here.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Steve’s. Steve breathed heavily, pushing against those perfect lips with his own. He broke away for air, feeling his lungs fill with oxygen once more.

“Sit down Buck.”

The brunet sat next to Steve, placing his hands in between his knees.

“You remember that time-” Steve began, only to be cut off.

“You know we don’t talk about that.” Bucky said, the words strained.

“I know, but what if we tried again? I was given this serum that made me stronger, I know I don’t look it, but I could take it this time.” Steve’s ears reddened as he spoke.

“No way, you just about broke that night, you were a wheezing, trembling mess. That was the night I slept on the floor, remember?” Bucky smiled.

Steve had slept in their bed at Bucky’s insistence, his body weak after what they had attempted.

“I miss you.” Steve said, surprised that the words had come from his mouth, as his mind filled with doubt. Did Bucky really love him?

The hallucination faded, and Steve went to the dresser, pulling out letters and a too-large shirt. He removed his shirt and the training shirt worn underneath. He buttoned up the shirt, tucking it into his pants, which were belted ever tighter. He lay on his stomach, rereading all the letters Bucky had written him since he left.


	4. I Knew It Was My Own True Love

Steve and August spent the rest of June and most of July drawing bombed-out buildings, service men, and rubble from bombings. These were sent back to the States. Then word came from Congress on the twenty-third of July: they were being shut down. There were those in Congress who believed that the money spent on the program would be better used in some other area of the military.

August visited Steve the day the news came. The other man’s eyes were red and puffy, as if he hadn’t gotten much sleep or had been crying.

“You heard too huh?”

Steve nodded solemnly.

“I’m being reassigned.” August said. “They won’t tell me where exactly, but I know it’s stateside.” He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Trying to keep me as far from the fight as they can.” His tone turned serious. “And you?”

“All the civilian artists got offered jobs by _Life_. I don’t want that.”

“Why not? It’s good money and you’d still be making art-”

“Why would I take a job making art when I could be saving it?” Grinning, Steve held up the President’s letter, which August took with a baffled look, reading it quickly.

“That’s great. You’re going to do great things with this program, I can feel it.” He handed back the letter. August’s words made Steve feel something warm bubble up inside him. It was comforting to know that August believed him.

Before they parted ways, August told him: “Hayes was killed last week. Walking down the street unguarded, stepped on an uncharged bomb. I was made head of the unit.”

Steve swallowed, walking back into the flat for the last time. He packed his suitcase, turned in his key, and went down to the docks to be shipped back to the US. He thought about how he would how no longer be on the same continent as Bucky or Peggy. He didn’t want to leave, he wished Congress had continued their funding, he really liked London.

He arrived on July twenty-eighth, a Wednesday. He went back to Irving Street, where he continued to draw for the _Eagle_ , as the President’s letter had stated that he would not start work for the Monuments Men until at least 1944, leaving him free for at least five months. Steve was as happy as he could be; his job for the _Eagle_ provided steady pay. There was a knock at the door one night, as eight o’clock approached. August stood there, another officer with him, both in their dress uniforms.

“Steve.” August handed Steve an envelope. “I’m sorry.”

Steve’s heart sank, the telegram had come.

“Is there anyone here?”

Steve shook his head. How would George and Winifred take it, knowing that they had one less son? Knowing that he was listed as Bucky’s next of kin, not them?

“If there’s anything we can do?”

Steve shook his head again, his mouth a flat line.

“I’m sorry. If I can do anything, let me know.”

Steve nodded, closing the door behind them.

_The Secretary of War deeply regrets to inform you_

Steve couldn’t feel his lips as he bit down on them, drawing blood.

_of the loss of your friend_

He sat down hard on the chair, his arms resting on the small kitchen table.

_Sergeant James B Barnes_

His head was spinning, this wasn’t real, it was a dream. A horrible, terrible dream.

_Report received states that he was captured fifth October in Italy_

Steve nearly set the telegram down, almost stopped reading.

_As he has not been returned in any POW exchanges since then_

He felt his stomach flip-flop.

_It can only be declared that he is presumed dead._

Steve threw the telegram down on the table.

_Letter to follow._

He felt hot tears slip down his cheeks. His breathing became erratic, his breaths came in hitching gasps that caught in his throat at times, reminding him of life without the serum. He went to the bedroom, finding a too-large shirt in the wardrobe. He took it and crawled into bed, the shirt pressed to his face. It smelled like Bucky’s cologne and cigarettes and whiskey and women, like ink and paper, coffee and wood varnish, like the clerical office he worked in. 

Steve never left the bed, ending up sleeping with the shirt to his nose, filling his lungs with the scent of his love. His cheeks were tear-stained, his eyes red and puffy, his lungs burned from alcohol and his throat raw from howling.

\--

The conditions in the factory were _shit_. The work was grueling, and the food was disgusting; watery soup, stale bread, fake coffee. And the pneumonia he had caught on the battlefield was no help. After being beaten, then being taken from Dum Dum and Gabe and the others in their cell, things only got worse.

The guards brought him to a room in the back of the factory. There Bucky waited until the doctor came in. He dismissed the guards, telling them to close the door and stay outside. Then he moved closer to the table on which Bucky sat. 

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.” Bucky said through clenched teeth.

“Your refusal to leave your men on the battlefield made you a prime candidate. Going in the stead of one of your men, sacrificing yourself, made you stand out even more. And then of course, the fact that you became too sick and weak to continue working practically guaranteed that you would end up here.” The doctor leaned toward Bucky as he spoke, then told him to look around the room.

He saw weights, an obstacle course, and a rubber mat. The doctor told him to go lift the weights, which he did. He completed the obstacle course and did push ups on the rubbery material. All of his response times were recorded, along with the maximum amount of weight he could lift. 

The doctor seemed very pleased with the results, smiling as he noted something on his clipboard. He called for assistants, in walked four people wearing white gowns, rubber gloves, surgical hats, and masks. Wanting to comply for the first time, he didn’t fight as they pushed him down, strapping him to the strange board. One of them wheeled something tall to the end of the table, pointing it’s head straight at him. He swallowed thickly as he felt the pinprick of a needle enter his arm.

His head was spinning, what was happening? He lay there, shivering, his head kept in place by the headrest, his feet flat against the footrest. He could look around, the restraints went across his chest, his arms, and his legs. He felt sick, and focused on the window behind the ray. He saw the doctor exchange his glasses for a pair of sunglasses, and all the assistants wore sunglasses as well. The air hummed with electricity as the machine was switched on. A burst of blinding light, then-

-he was back in his cell. It was cold, and dark, and he was alone, the others hadn’t come back yet. He sat on the frigid concrete, shivering. With no natural light allowed into the factory, it was impossible to tell what time it was. When the others returned, they asked him what was wrong and tried to get him to talk to them. He could tell they were worried, but kept his mouth shut, not wanting to put all of them at risk. He fell asleep some time later, and was awoken by a banging at the bars of the cell. He looked around, he was alone again. He stood as the door was opened for two masked guards, who lead him to the room. He knew that going willingly would save a possible beating later.

There the doctor stood waiting, clipboard in hand, pen at the ready to take down today’s results. When the course was run through, and the results were recorded, the doctor called for assistants. Once again four people entered. They struggled as he fought against them. They succeeded finally, and he breathed heavily as they strapped him down, while a fifth body came in. Bucky had never seen this person before. He was blond, not very muscular, and taller than the doctor. Yet he walked right up to him, and the two conversed in German for some while. Then the doctor retreated to the observation area above the room, while the young man took over.

“My name is Richard Schuttmann,” he said as he ensured that the ray was in place and the serum had been administered. 

“Fuck you, squid Nazi,” Bucky spat at him.

Richard’s lips settled in a harsh line, his finger kept on the switch before he said, “I’m sorry.” He switched the ray on.

\--

This treatment continued for some time, the pain lasting for what felt like forever until finally one day, it stopped.

\--

“Richard, come here.”

“Yes, Herr Doktor?”

“Schmidt plans to test the power of the Tesseract on the third. We must move him tomorrow, before Schmidt destroys this place and kills us all. I am entrusting you to this task.”

“But mein Herr--”

“You must take him to Russia. I am needed elsewhere, or I would go with you. Take this, and show it to any members you encounter. They will know what to do. Can you do this for me?”

Richard took the letter from the doctor with shaking hands. “Jawohl, Herr Zola.”

The doctor smiled at the young man, he had promise and potential. He had been right to choose him as his protégé.

\--

On the second of November, 1943, Bucky was brought out of the cell and dragged to the room for what he hoped was the final time. There was no way in hell they could continue. This had to be the last time, otherwise he would die from cold or the hunger that constantly gnawed away at him. His stomach wouldn’t stop growling as he was strapped to the table. His head hurt, never mind the radiation, and he was febrile. He heard the click of the door open and close.

“Herr Zola, Herr Schmidt requests your presence.”

The doctor left with the guard. After some time, he returned, a look of worry on his face. He called for Richard.

Bucky’s heart began to pick up pace as he attempted to strain at the restraints binding him.

“Schmidt is going to move the date of the test to the fourth. Proceed as normal, prepare to move him tomorrow night.”

Bucky could feel sweat collecting at his armpits, hot and fetid.

“Jawohl, Herr Zola.”

Bucky glared daggers at Richard and Zola as he opened his mouth.

“Where are you taking me?” He demanded.

Zola and Richard turned to look at him before Zola moved to his side, using his hands to brace himself on the table as he leaned over Bucky.

“You will be taken to a base in Russia, where my work will continue.” The doctor leered at him before returning to Richard and whispering to him.

Bucky’s thoughts turned to his family. Jack and Andy had both enlisted after he was drafted, leaving Rebecca home alone to eat Ma’s hotch-potch and Pa’s bangers and mash, as well as other foods they had brought with them from the old countries. He thought of Steve, and how he would gather with the Barneses at the Evergreens Cemetery in mourning an empty grave. 

He closed his eyes as he heard the ray being positioned.

\--

When the third of November arrived, nothing seemed out of place. Until the evening, when everything went wrong.

Bucky told those in his cell that there were plans for him to be sent away. When their guard walked by, Dum Dum cut his throat with a piece of glass he had smuggled from the factory that day.

“The keys! Dugan, give us the keys!” Falsworth whispered loudly. 

Dum Dum took the keys from the guard’s belt and tossed them to Falsworth, who unlocked the cage door. “Alright, everyone follow me.” 

Falsworth lead the way, with Gabe, Jim, Dum Dum, and Jacques following behind. Bucky stayed, hoping they could escape into the woods where they would be safe.

The force of the explosion was enough to launch him through the empty space of the once-standing building. He lay on the hard forest ground, unable and unwilling to move. He closed his eyes, remembering the dark liquid he had seen by his left side as he tried to regulate his breathing. He thought of how happy he was that Steve was back home, safe and away from danger.

When he opened his eyes again, something caught his action. A blur, a shape, a person came near. It was Richard, Zola’s head assistant and protégé. He raised his right arm, then tried to do the same with his left, but couldn’t. He figured it was just numb from the impact of falling. The young German knelt by him.

“ _Mein Gott_.”

He was being picked up, carried toward one of the trucks that had survived the explosion. He knew he was too weak to fight back, so he let himself relax as he was secured into the truck’s seat. He saw the sky tear open and light suck someone into the gaping heavens, before passing out again.

\--

During the long drive from Kreischburg to Virbalis, Richard had marveled at how quickly the American’s wounds had healed. Once in Virbalis, Richard hauled the American onto a train headed for Moscow. After that train came one for Tomsk, then Vladivostok, at which he jumped out when they neared Oymyakon, pulling the American with him. He showed his letter to an encampment of soldiers, one of whom took them to a secluded base.


	5. Oh, Not the Evening

“Doctor Fennhoff, my name is Richard Schuttmann. I was told by Doctor Zola to bring this man to you, and to give you this.” He gave the letter to the Russian doctor, who read it quickly before destroying it. He ignored the German’s look of fear as he began to question the twenty-year-old.

“What did Zola do to him?”

“Gave him injections and radiation at least twice a week for three weeks. His progress was measured against a control of his own strength, speed, and endurance prior to receiving anything.”

“How did he take to these tests?”

“His body hasn’t rejected anything as far as I or Doctor Zola could tell.”

“Keep him awake. We’ll need to monitor his response to pain.” Fennhoff moved to the table where the American lay, awake but groggy, constantly on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness.

“Where is the anesthetic?” Richard walked to the head of the table, where an IV stand or anesthesia machine should have been. Chills ran down his spine.

“If we give him anything it could kill him. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we? What would Zola say if he heard you were responsible for the death of his greatest creation?”

Richard wanted to yell at the doctor, tell him that not giving the American anything could kill him as well, but said nothing, only moving to the other end of the room, where he could watch from afar. One of the blue coated doctors approached the table with a bonesaw and turned it on, applying it to the exposed bone.

“How long after the explosion did you find him?”

Richard shrugged. “Maybe a couple of hours? It’s impossible to tell.”

“It’s amazing that he didn’t bleed out before then.”

“Yes, Doctor Zola’s serum certainly worked.”

“It’s a shame he couldn’t come with you.”

Richard pressed his lips together and watched the bonesaw cut away. The man was fully awake by now, and let a pained gasp escape his lips. The explosion had left him with half of his upper arm, and now, after the bone and flesh had been reduced somewhat, he was left with a shoulder and a bit of arm. He caught sight of this, the bonesaw whirring and finishing its job, the loss of his arm, and promptly fell unconscious. The bonesaw removed what remained of the man’s arm.

“Begin grafting.”

The technician nodded, and began the process of grafting cybernetic components into the man’s shoulder, directly into the nervous and muscular systems. At the same time, one of the doctors began the process of altering the American’s left eye. Richard couldn’t stand it, he wished he had helped the American escape, but he knew there would be grave consequences if he failed to complete the task Zola had given him. He felt sick to his stomach, but knew what Fennhoff would think of him if he left. He would think Zola had sent him some weak-willed boy who was capable of torture but who couldn’t stomach surgery. He cursed himself and looked back up, keeping an eye on the American’s vitals.

After an hour, both operations were complete and the man was regaining consciousness. A whirring sound emitted from the man’s new arm. The technician turned from filling out his report. A hand, cold and metallic, was on his throat, choking the airway. He tried to free himself, but the hand only squeezed harder; the technician was getting light headed. Krämer was at his side, his fist striking the man to get him off of the technician. Another doctor approached the table with a metal syringe and injected the man with a liquid which rendered him unconscious.

“Freeze him!” Krämer yelled, the light glaring off his bald head.

“Easy Ernst, I’m fine.” The technician placed a hand on Krämer’s arm to reassure him.

“No, freezing him won’t do.” Fennhoff spoke to Richard. “Have him rest. We will begin therapy in a week’s time.” Richard made sure the American had his own room, small as it was. There he would rest and heal before any further work continued.

After a week, Fennhoff told Richard, “Get the box.”

The German scurried to another room to get what the doctor ordered. He returned to the operating room, the box heavy in his hands. The sight that met his eyes upon entering the room was enough to nearly cause him to drop the box on his feet.

The American was sitting upright in a chair, his arms held by two doctors. Another doctor stood behind him, a pair of manual clippers in hand, clipping away. The man’s hair fell to the floor in great clumps. When the blue coat was finished, he stepped back, as if admiring his work. There was no hair left on the man’s head. But he did not speak or move, he simply sat there, frowning. Did he know what was happening to him?

Fennhoff seemed pleased. He saw Richard in the doorway and told him to come in and put the box down on a small table behind the chair. It was then that Richard realized how much worse the Russian doctor was than Zola. “Begin therapy.”

The doctors who had been holding the man’s arms moved away. The doctor who had cut the American’s hair attached two electrodes to either side of the man’s head while Krämer injected him with a clear liquid.

“What was that?”

“Methohexital. It will render him unconscious.” Fennhoff explained to Richard.

A mouthpiece was shoved into the man’s mouth as restraints closed around his legs and arms. Fennhoff nodded at the blue coat, who turned the box on.

The room crackled and sparked with electricity. The man convulsed violently for a minute, before going still. The smell of singed flesh hung in the air. The box was turned off, the mouthpiece removed, the electrodes taken off, and the cuffs retracted back into the chair. The skin where the electrodes had turned a purplish color.

“Very good.” Fennhoff walked around the chair, the man had not regained consciousness. “We’ll begin conditioning tomorrow.” At that, the doctors left, except Richard.

“Doctor Fennhoff, I was told by Doctor Zola that I would take over the project.”

“Yes, who do you think will be doing the conditioning, and administering the electroconvulsive and deep sleep therapies? I will be going back to the war in a few months, and you will take over for me. Zola was right to send you here, you will do great things in this program, I can feel it.”

\--

Richard did not sleep that night. He kept replaying that scene over and over in his mind, the man convulsing with the seizure that had been induced, Fennhoff’s order for Richard to clean the American up. Would he remember it? Richard prayed that he wouldn’t.


	6. The Faithful Soldier

Conditioning was a combination of electroconvulsive therapy, spoken words, and movement, a treatment which both Fennhoff and Zola hoped would make the American obedient to whoever said the words.

After one round of ECT, Richard said the first word.

“Žilánie.” The Russian felt funny on his tongue, but he would get used to it, he hoped. He knew that word meant longing, or desire. He stood behind the American, on his right.

Another round, then the second word.

“Ržávyj.” Rusted. He moved while saying the word, pausing to stand behind the American before moving to his left.

A third round of electricity, a third word. He advanced, moving in a circle around the American.

“Simnátsatʹ.” Seventeen. 

Richard closed the book, setting it down on the small table by the chair. Eventually they would use all ten words that the red book contained, but three was all they would go up to for now. Anymore and the American’s brain could be severely damaged. Richard removed the electrodes and mouthpiece, and injected the man with chlorpromazine, which would aid in deep sleep therapy. As the man fell unconscious, Richard went to the EEG to read what the American’s brain activity had been during treatment. Once he was sure that the American was completely unconscious, he committed the man to the care of a blue coat, and ensured that he was placed in his room. Being satisfied with the results, Richard filled out his report.

\--

The electric and sleep therapies continued throughout December and into 1944. When Fennhoff came back, the technician and doctors and blue coats all called him Ivchenko. In the winter of 1945, there was word that Zola was coming to see them, to monitor the progress they had made. Richard could not wait to see his mentor again.


	7. Zimushka

The winter of 1945 was a good one for Steve Rogers.

He had finally been called up to join the Monuments Men, who had made their way through Italy and France and were now in Germany. The other men were all older than Steve’s twenty-six years, but he didn’t mind. They were good men, all determined to restore Europe’s stolen treasures and art to their rightful owners. Steve had been called up because he was needed to help evacuate a building of the stolen goods that had been stashed inside.

Steve had been allowed to walk the castle, gaping at the splendor and majesty of the rooms, some of which had been filled with nothing but gold. Others contained paintings and statues, some held stacks of furniture. All of the stolen artwork and goods had been packaged into wooden crates before Steve arrived. He found that most of the crates were too heavy for the other men, so he carried them down the winding stone stairs and pushed them down wooden rails that went over the stone steps on the castle’s exterior. Men at the bottom of the steps stopped the crates from falling, and continued to push and pull them into the waiting trucks.

The castle was magnificent, Steve wished that he had the time to draw every inch of it. But he also knew that there was work to do, those crates weren’t going to move themselves. At least he got to put his old uniform to use again. It kept some of the cold of the German winter out. _If I still had nipples, they’ve have frozen off. My balls, however, I will not be able to feel them until spring._

After all the crates had been moved into the trucks, and the photo albums found and accounted for, all the man piled high into empty cars and trucks and drove off to the railroad. Steve helped to load rail cars with art, hefting and stacking the crates, ensuring that they were tightly packed to avoid any further damage to their contents. Steve watched as forty-nine rail cars pulled away, heading for the Munich checkpoint. When the art reached the checkpoint, Steve was dismissed; he was no longer needed. So he buried his grief once more, and went back to the US, back to Irving Street, back to drawing for the Eagle.

\--

The winter of 1945 was a bad one of Arnim Zola.

As the train sped through the Alps on its route to Russia, she was breached by a group of men, who took Zola captive.

“Who is your commander?”

“I am.” A man limped from the shadows. He wore the uniform of a captain in the US Army. “Good work, Jones. Let’s take him back to Jim and the others, then radio Phillips.”

“Yes sir, Captain King.”

\--

The winter of 1945 was a terrible one for Richard Schuttmann.

Ivchenko had kept his word, and Richard was over the American’s conditioning and care. Ivchenko brainwashed him, hypnotizing him with his ring and his voice, but Richard implanted the words in his brain. They were up to four now.

“Rassvét.” Daybreak, or dawn.

Richard ensured the American’s hair was clipped off whenever it began to grow back. Electroconvulsive therapy became routine, as did deep sleep therapy.

He worked tirelessly to please Ivchenko, and honor Zola’s work. Richard knew that the American was dangerous, but knew that he would never attack Ivchenko, or himself. They had done so much to advance this project.

\--

Richard was proven wrong on April 6, 1946.

The routine was simple: wake the American from deep sleep therapy via a shock, proceed to electroconvulsive therapy, end with deep sleep therapy. However, when Richard went to wake the American, he was not in the room. Richard dropped the electric cattle prod, leaving it on the floor of the American’s room as he inquired about the American with the technician and doctors and blue coats. He was nowhere to be found. He was gone.

Richard was rounding a corner, heading toward the alarm, when he saw the American. He was sitting in the chair, the one place Richard hadn’t thought to look.

The American stood upon noticing Richard enter the room. He didn’t move, just rose slowly, his hands clasped behind him. Richard did not move. Ivchenko was away in Belarus, inspecting the academy there. This had never happened before, neither Hydra nor Leviathan had protocol for this type of situation. Richard backed away, knowing that he couldn’t call the American off. He masked the fear in his voice as he called for the technician and doctors and blue coats, who all gathered in the operating room.

Then the American moved. He attacked the doctors and blue coats first, then the technician. He left Richard alone and ran. Richard followed the American until he lost sight of him, somewhere in the Belarusian forest.

\--

The Belarusian academy was abounded, but warm, and Richard was surprised to find himself there when he came to. He thought he had heard Ivchenko’s voice, but regarded it as a combination of delirium and exhaustion. After checking out the facility, and coming to the conclusion that it was indeed abounded, Richard looked for any sign that the American had been there, but found none.

Richard stayed in the academy until May sixth, 1946.


	8. When This Lousy War Is Over

On May sixth, 1946, the Belarusian academy welcomed uninvited guests. Richard heard them before he saw them, and knowing that they were most likely hostile, fled deeper into the academy. It was there that he found Ivchenko tending to another man. The intruders came around the corner, and found Ivchenko and the man, who was killed for fatal wounding one of the group while Ivchenko was spared. Richard didn’t move or make a sound. He looked for an escape; there was an open door he could slip through. He made a run for it, but-

“On your knees! Hands above your head, on your knees!”

Richard did as he was commanded, dropping to his knees and placing his hands on his head. Someone came behind him, a gun was jammed against his skull.

“Who are you? Who do you work for?” A woman, British, around Richard’s age.

“Richard Schuttman. Hydra, then Leviathan.” _I’m sorry, Doktor Zola._

The gun was pushed further against Richard’s head.

He wanted to get on their side, he knew that if he gave them something of value, he might just have a chance of getting to America, freedom from Hydra and Leviathan. “Don’t shot! Please. I can help you.” He remembered the muddy boot prints he had found the other day. “I know where the American is.”

“The American?” Members of the group looked at each other in confusion.

Richard nodded, swallowing against the lump that had formed in his throat. “He’s in the forest, I’ll take you to him.”

The gun was removed, and Richard stood, shaking his head.

That’s how Richard ended up leading a Negro and a Japanese man into the Belarusian forest. He stopped short, just a few feet from where he had last seen the American. He parted the branches of a pine tree to peer through. He was still there, but not because of any order Richard had given. He must have decided to stay there on his own.

The Japanese man--was his name Jim?--went first, leaving the Negro with Richard.

“Oh my God.” Jim came back, nearly breathless with emotion. “Gabe, you gotta see this.”

“I left my fiancée with Dugan. This better be worth it.” The Negro, Gabe, followed Jim back to the underbrush-filled area where the America sat. They reappeared some minutes later, conversing in quiet, whispered tones as they followed Richard back. Richard worried about what the two men were talking over.

“Dum Dum, Peg, come with us. There’s someone you should see.”

They left Ivchenko with another man, and followed them out through the woods.

The woman’s reaction was much different than what Richard expected. Upon seeing the American, with a mink fur ushanka on his head and the tattered and worn remains of a Soviet soldier’s fatigues on him, she went to him, against the advice of the men there. Having taken a bottle of bourbon from the man called Dugan, she poured some in a cup, and offered this to the American, who took the cup and drank it down in one gulp.

“We won’t hurt you.” The American looked at Richard when the woman said this. “We want to help.” He looked back at the woman. His features hardened, he narrowed the corners of his eyes as he studied her.

“What’s your name?” Peggy asked.

He didn’t respond.

“Do you know what year is it?” She questioned further.

“1946,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Belarus.” The American smiled, his mouth turning up behind his beard.

“Gabe, do you have a razor? We should get him cleaned up before taking him with us. Someone get him a coat, too.”

The group trooped back in clumps, Richard leading Dugan, with the woman, Gabe, Jim, and the American trailing behind. Peggy and Gabe her fiancé, talked in quiet tones with the American, while Jim helped to keep him on his feet.

“We’re taking them with us.” Peggy told one of the men she had left Ivchenko with. He began to object, saying that as a woman, she had no say in the matter. “Oh shut up, Thompson.”

\--

The plane trip back was long and warm. Richard had never been on a plane before, much less an American one. He watched the American, who was fast asleep, wrapped in blankets and full of bourbon. It was probably one of the first natural sleeps he had since his escape. 

Richard knew that deep sleep therapy could have left the American in a state of near-constant consciousness for an unknown period of time. He could have gone anywhere from a few days to a week without sleep and not have registered it. The electroconvulsive therapy could have also scrambled his brain. 

Richard tried not to think about any of that, although he knew he would most likely be questioned about his involvement in the program once the plane landed. He emptied his mind, clearing it of all thought so he could sleep.


	9. I Never Will Marry

Peggy ensured that Schuttmann was interrogated and Ivchenko dealt with accordingly. Dooley was going to place both men directly in prison, but then decided to keep them around to see how things would play out.

Gabe and Jim had gone done with her to the research department, to ensure that Howard was on board with the research he had been asked to head.

“Yeah, should be no problem.”

\--

Except it _was_ a problem. The research was the most advanced Howard had ever done. The man, James, had to be put under anesthetic the first time, to ensure Howard and Richard’s safety. After that, anesthetic wasn’t used, and Howard simply burned a hole in the prosthetic to get a look at the mechanics.

After a month, he felt he had done all that he could, and filed a report.

“This is one of the most advanced pieces of technology I’ve ever seen, barring my own. You think we could get Sousa one of these?”

“Not funny Howard. You’re wanted in DC.”

“You’re not coming?”

Peggy shook her head. “I’m needed here I’m afraid. I have to train him, Thompson’s orders.”

“He’s being made an agent?”

“Do you have something against him?”

“No, but I think he could be dangerous. He still doesn’t know who he is. That German kid said that whatever was done to him could have permanently damaged his brain. However, that might not be the case. He could still remember things, but it will take some time.”


	10. I'm Synchronized With My Sweetheart

After a month of training, the two brunettes were sent to Europe to work on international cases for the SSR. In January of 1949, after Bucky had spent two and a half years working for the SSR, Howard announced that he wanted Peggy to join him in founding SHIELD, which would incorporate the SSR as its scientific division. She accepted his offer, and the two founded the organization with Colonel Phillips. SHIELD hired several German scientists, including Zola.

Bucky stayed on with the SSR until SHIELD hired him, deciding to keep him at the New York Bell Company Office when in the US. He was told that he was to stay in Europe for an undetermined period of time, and so in Europe he stayed. It was 1953, he had been free from Hydra and Leviathan for six and a half years.

“Mr. Cojocaru, a letter for you.”

“Mulţumesc, Crisa.”

In Czechoslovakia he had been Dušan Jelen, in Poland Lev Sierzant, in Germany Engel Brun. But in Bucharest he took the name Iacob Cojocaru, and worked a clerical job, like he had before the war. He opened the letter once his secretary was gone.

_Iacob, We need you in the States. There will be a plane at five o’clock. Hurry. Bisera Chilikov._

“Peggy, what have you gotten yourself into now?” Bucky mumbled as he folded the letter and tucked it in an inner pocket of his jacket. Grabbing his hat and coat, he bid Crisa a good day and left the building, heading for the meet-up point.

\--

“What is it? Why did--?”

“We’re getting married.” Gabe held Peggy in his arms.

Bucky forced a smile. “That’s great. Congratulations.” _You dragged me out of a Soviet-occupied country, where I had been undercover for six months, to tell me that you and Gabe are getting hitched?_

“And we wanted you to be there, as the guest of honor.”

“I’d be honored. Is there anything else required of me while I’m stateside?”

“You’ll return to decoding in a week.”

The wedding was nothing grand, simply held in a New York courthouse. Peggy and Gabe returned to the city in May, after their honeymoon in England.

All he wanted to do was go home, to Irving Street and to Steve. But he knew that was impossible to do without risking Steve’s life.

Except life has a way to bring people back together despite their best efforts.


	11. Deep In My Heart

In July, a few days after his thirty-fifth birthday, Steve attended an event for civil rights near the Village, at 129 Macdougal Street. The place had hosted a music event ten years earlier, and it was there that Steve had first heard Pete Seeger sing. He would be there again, leading a sing-along of protest songs.

The street was packed with people, white and Negro alike. Steve found himself standing next to a white man who held the hand of a Negro all through the speeches that were made before the singing started.

There were anti-war and anti-segregation speeches, queer acceptance and religious tolerance speeches, speeches that affected everyone from all walks of life, no matter their skin color or religion or who they loved.

Then came the songs. There was “Bourgeois Blues”, “The Hammer Song”, and “This Land is Your Land”. But then someone said something which changed the event, and united everyone even more.

“Pete, teach us “We Shall Overcome”!”

“Oh, you wanna learn that one? Alright, I’ll teach you.” And Pete began to sing. By the second line, the crowd had joined in.

“ _We shall overcome,_ ”

“Steve!”

Steve thought he heard his name, and looked around, but saw no one, so he kept singing.

“ _We shall overcome,_ ”

“Steve!”

“ _We shall overcome, someday._ ”

He turned around again, there was a man in a dark grey suit coming toward him. Steve squinted as the man came nearer.

“Bucky?”

He was there, standing in front of Steve, real, alive. Steve’s heart lurched in his chest as he tried to back away. _Have I finally lost my mind?_

“ _Oh, deep in my heart,_ ”

“You-you’re alive, I--I thought, they told me--and I got a telegram and a _letter_ , Buck, and-- how?” Steve fought back tears as a firm, warm hand grabbed his shoulder. He realized now that he hadn’t lost his mind.

“ _I do believe,_ ”

“I’ll tell you when we get back home, ok? It’s not safe here.” Bucky smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“ _We shall overcome, someday._ ”

“Will you stay, at least until the song ends?” Steve put a hand on the arm that rested on his shoulder.

“ _We’ll walk hand in hand,_ ”

“For you, yes.” Bucky pulled Steve into him, close and comforting.

“ _We’ll walk hand in hand,_ ”

They added their voices to everyone else’s.

“ _We’ll walk hand in hand, someday._ ”

\--

When the event was over, they took the subway to Bergen Street, where they got off and walked home. Irving Street was a welcome sight. Steve hadn’t moved out of the tenement, didn’t want to anyway. Rent was cheap, and drawing for a newspaper didn’t make much money. Once they were sitting down, safe behind locked doors, the story began. Steve noticed that Bucky still looked as he had ten years ago, he hadn’t changed physically. The same was true of himself.

When it was over, Steve surreptitiously wiped the tears from his cheeks, not wanting to be seen as vulnerable. They fell asleep that night with Steve curled up against Bucky, as they had slept ten years ago, his head tucked securely under Bucky’s chin.


	12. 'Cause His Hair is Dark and His Eyes are Blue

After ten years apart, they couldn’t spend any more time away from each other. Whoever Bucky was now, Steve let him back into their home without a second thought.

Steve glanced at the clock for the third time in the past ten minutes. _He should’ve been home by now._ He heard the door open and felt the cold rush of September air, but didn’t greet Bucky as he would have, concentrating on his sketch instead. He heard the methodical sounds of Bucky’s homecoming; the slight thud of his briefcase being set on the floor, the rustle of laces as his shoes were untied and removed, the light thunk as his coat was placed over a chair, the click of the bedroom door as it was shut.

Getting up from his seat as quietly as he could, Steve made his way to where the coat was thrown. He had never been shown or told exactly what was kept in the coat, but with its owner gone and curiosity getting the better of him, Steve now had the chance to find out for himself. He reached a hand into one of the pockets, coming up with a small tube. It was Vaseline. And there were…

Steve grabbed one. _No way._ The bedroom door opened and Bucky walked out, dressed in a set of light blue pajamas. He looked at Steve, who looked up from the objects in his hands.

“Have you been fonduing at work?”

“No.” Bucky sat at the table, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Need I remind you, the only woman I work with is Mrs. Peggy Carter, and she is happily married.”

Steve put the Vaseline and condom down.

“Come ‘ere.” The blond went to his lover, sitting on the table beside him, their hands touching. “I know that I’ll never understand how you feel.”

Steve looked at him, dark blue eyes meeting paler ones.

“And I know that you’ve been holding back because you think I’m fragile.”

“I don’t--That’s not-” Steve began.

“I’m not going to break just because I was tortured for a few years.” He ran his fingers up the length of Steve’s arm, then back down again. Steve shivered, the sensation felt good.

Silence descended upon the room, only to be broken by Steve. “I had a double mastectomy.”

“When?” Bucky didn’t sound hurt, which surprised Steve.

“In 1945, before my work with the Monuments Men.” He unbuttoned and opened his shirt, turning his head to the side as Bucky ran a finger along the faint scars across Steve’s chest.

“My phalloplasty graft came from a dead soldier. Reinstein was lucky to get ahold of the body when he did.”

Bucky looked at him, confusion visible on his face.

Steve cleared his throat. “Phalloplasty is a surgery that, uh…” He blushed and cleared his throat again. “Basically it takes skin from your body, or someone else’s body, and uses that to…um…form a dick. I got lucky, Reinstein was able to take tissue and nerves from the body and give them to me.”

Bucky nodded slowly, understanding replacing his confusion.

“And besides, what’s the point of living if you don’t have a dick?”

Steve laughed at his own joke, which made Bucky laugh.

“Reinstein?” Bucky asked nervously, when they had both regained their breath.

“Erskine, the doctor who gave me the serum. He changed his name, didn’t want to risk being assassinated again.”

Silence descended once more upon the room, causing Steve to begin thinking the worst. _Please, don’t be disappointed in me. I lost you once, I can’t bear the thought of losing you again. Not when it would be my fault._

“I’m sorry, I know I can never give you what you’ve always wanted.”

“I’ve always wanted _you_ , Steve Rogers.” Bucky stood, eyes fixed on Steve, who looked down as his cheeks flushed. Both hands were on Steve, gently working their way up and down. Steve could practically hear his heart as it pounded in his chest, and felt the sensation of blood rush to his dick. He licked his lips as the other hand ran down his back.

He couldn’t stand it anymore, he _had_ to kiss Bucky. 

He leaned forward, placing his hands on Bucky’s shoulders to steady himself, feeling the brunet’s breath as he drew closer, until their lips collided, resulting in a banging of noses and a smashing of teeth. 

When Steve drew away for air, he breathed in Bucky’s scent mingled with the smell of his cologne, before he said, “There, our first kiss in ten years.” 

They laughed, as if that made up for all the time lost between then and now.

“Hmm. Come on.” Bucky headed toward their bedroom.

“Where’re you goin’?” Steve hopped off the table.

“Bed. Now.”

Steve grinned wickedly and grabbed the Vaseline before following him inside their room. It would be a long night indeed.

\--

When Steve woke up, his thighs were sore, but that was to be expected. At least the wet spot was gone, after Steve had slept in it the rest of the night. He felt relaxed, the room still smelled musky. The warmth next to him stirred and woke, and Steve laid his head on the broad chest as their hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

“I should call…” and the telephone was reached for and the rotary spun. “Peg, I can’t come in today, Steve’s sick.” Steve took his cue and began coughing. “He’s just got a cold. How’re you and Gabe? …yes, of course. Thanks Peg.”

Bucky hung up the receiver and put the telephone back on the nightstand. Steve placed his head back on the warm chest once Bucky settled back down. There was quiet for a long time, the only sound the two men breathing and their hearts beating in near unison.

“You know,” Bucky said, breaking the silence, “all those times they were experimenting on me and torturing me, the thing that kept me sane was you.”

“You’re such a sap.” Steve turned his body and they kissed once, then twice.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Hm?”

“Our meeting up again. It was-” Bucky paused, “it wasn’t planned. I was walking to the apartment SHIELD had put me in, and I saw you, and--it was chance, Steve, pure luck.”

Once again Steve’s mind was filled with doubt. Did Bucky _really_ love him? _If not, why does he stay with me? Could he have fallen out of love during all the torture he’s gone through? Or did something snap once he was free of Hydra and Leviathan?_

“Steve, you okay?” Bucky asked, concern in his voice and worry creasing his brow.

“I’m fine.” Steve pushed the intrusive thoughts from his mind.

“Is it okay if I-?” Bucky made a motion that was directed downward.

Steve nodded permission.

“I’ve been thinkin’...” Bucky wrapped his flesh arm around Steve’s waist, careful not to make him feel uncomfortable.

Steve thought back to the last time they been this close, thirteen years ago. “We all know that’s not good.”

Bucky scowled. “Hush Stevie, or you’ll miss the surprise.” His expression softened. “What’da ya say we go to Germany, hm? Go to Oktoberfest, hm?” _Leaving one invisible war zone for another._

“I was in Bavaria for the Monuments Men, I really liked it, despite the cold.”

“Good, we leave tomorrow morning.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “How long will we be gone?”

“Until Oktoberfest ends.”

“Is Peggy okay with you taking two weeks off?”

“I told her we’re going to take down Hydra.”

“But Zola’s here.” Steve pointed out. _Why not kill him first?_

“We’ll take care of him last.” _I have my reasons._


	13. Beautiful As Milk And Blood

Their flight to the Munich-Riem airfield was provided by SHIELD. Steve, having never flown before, was nervous at first, but once he got used to it the feeling went away. He ended up sleeping most of the way. 

“You look exhausted.”

They had gotten to the safehouse, and had just finished unpacking when Steve made his remark.

“I don’t allow myself to sleep in public.” Bucky certainly looked it, with dark circles under his eyes and the way his hair was unmussed. Bucky drew the curtains, darkening the room. Blackouts, holdovers from the war. He moved from the window to settle on the bed next to Steve, who was laying on his stomach, his feet crossed at the ankle and hanging in the air.

“The festival begins in two days. What should we do before then?” He asked from where he lay, supported by his forearms.

They moved closer, Bucky’s fingers caressing Steve’s back, slowly making their way down to his ass.

Steve felt himself stiffen as he flushed. Bucky leaned in and Steve felt him hum his approval as their lips brushed, causing Steve’s flush to deepen and spread to his chest.

“T-there’re some bars…”

Steve moaned as their lips met again.

“There’s two castles, but I’ve only been in the one.” He said when they separated.

“Two castles, huh?” Bucky sat up, earning a little disappointed whimper from Steve. He loosened his tie enough to unbutton and remove his shirt, then took off the net, which came off in a shimmer of small pentagons. Stark had made the net for Bucky, to conceal his arm. It gave the illusion of a flesh arm, mimicking the appearance and feel of skin and bone.

“Wait.” Steve sat up. “Could you go slowly? I want to get a good look.”

The blond moved closer as Bucky slowly moved his arm, causing the plates to shift and turn. As Bucky began replacing the net, Steve put his hands on the flesh arm.

“Could you leave it off? Just for tonight.”

Bucky hesitantly tossed the net into his bag. “Alright.” He straightened. “I liked last night.”

Steve responded stupidly, “I did too.”

Bucky smiled as he said, “When Hydra got me I was given the choice between a big dick or a great memory.”

“Which one did you choose?”

Bucky frowned. “I don’t remember.”

Steve grinned mischievously. “Well, I know the answer to that.” He moved in for a kiss, but a knock at the front door stopped him. Bucky got up, “You stay here,” he said as he picked up both the net and his shirt and went for the door. Steve heard German, and translated in his head.

“… _shouldn’t be here, it’s not safe_.” The stranger said. Steve didn’t recognize the voice; it was a man’s, rough and deep.

“I have a job to do, someone’s got to take them down.” Bucky’s tone was flat.

“ _But not you. Send Dunst or Hass, not you. If we lost you…if he lost you again…what would we do? You’re one of our best, I’ll send for_ …”

“No, I told her I’d do it, and I will. Someone’s got to make them pay.”

“ _If you insist_.”

The door closed and was locked. Steve was leaning on the doorway to the bedroom, waiting. Bucky walked back down the hall and nearly bumped into him.

Bucky stood a bit straighter, the left side of his mouth twitching upward ever so slightly. “How much German do you know?” he asked in the same way he asked Steve to make his coffee black every morning.

Steve shrugged. “Enough to get by.”


	14. You, You Are in My Heart

They saw Hohenschwangau first, where Steve marveled at the frescos covering many of the walls, and the intricate furniture. At Neuschwanstein, Steve stopped on the stone steps to take a picture of Bucky, as the Monuments Men had done eight years previous. The inner yard was paved with little square stones, they walked around while waiting for their tour to begin. In the unfinished throne room, they stayed until the tour group had left to sneak a kiss. Steve stopped at various points to point out areas where art had been hidden.

“Can’t we stay a bit longer Buck?”

“Come on Cinderella.” He held Steve’s hand.

“You know, they say he was like us.” 

“Who?” They were climbing down the steps when Bucky turned to Steve, the question just left his lips. 

“Ludwig II. He was engaged but never married, he kept moving the date and eventually called off the wedding entirely. He wrote Wagner a love letter and gave him a ring, and once spoke very highly of Edgar Allan Poe for two hours.”

By the time they got to the safehouse, the light drizzle had turned into a downpour. They ended up stripping out of their wet clothes, which were placed on the furnace in the living room to dry, while they scrambled into bed in nothing but their skivvies, giggling as if they were teenagers again.

They talked about everything: the war, Steve’s wartime jobs, their plan for taking down Hydra.

“And after we kill Zola, we just go back home?”

“Sure, why not?”

There was a pause before the answer came. “You think it’ll be that simple? They tried to make me a living weapon, Steve. I’ve been on dangerous missions before, but that was with SHIELD’s protection. If something happens out there, we’re on our own. Sure there’s safehouses we can hide in, and I’ve got contacts in various cities, but this is going to be unlike anything you’ve ever done before. I don’t want to risk your life. Are you sure you still want to come with me?”

“When you died, I didn’t know what to do. Now that you’re back, it feels like I’ve found my way again. I never want to leave you if I can help it. So yeah, I’m going with you on this. And you can’t stop me.”

“Never could stop you, anyway.”

\--

They spent the first day of the festival at the grounds, eating and enjoying each other’s company. They got a taste of Oktoberfest beer when the first keg was tapped at noon. After a third mug each, Steve turned to Bucky.

“We can’t get drunk.” He laughed, grinning stupidly. His joy was sapped as soon as he saw the look on Bucky’s face.

Bucky folded up a piece of paper, putting it in an inner pocket of his suit jacket. “We gotta go.” He said grimly, taking Steve’s hand and pulling him through the crowd, toward the street where the safehouse stood.

“What happened?” Steve asked as they turned a corner and walked briskly up the street.

“I’ll explain when we get back.” He called over the crowd.

\--

“Nearly all of the bases have taken by SHIELD, the last known one in 1945. There’s one more, but we don’t have that much time, and things just got a bit more complicated.” Bucky gave Steve the note.

_Oymyakon_.

Steve looked up from the note. “Is this the last base?”

A solemn nod.

Steve took a deep breath. “Ok, let’s go.”


	15. I'll Take the Low Road

The next safehouse was in Tomsk, a ways from the base. They took a train bound for Vladivostok, and jumped out when they neared Oymyakon. Steve guessed that Bucky had lead them to the base based on memory.

The base welcomed them coldly.

“Where should we start?” Steve stared down the darkness of the corridor and took a step forward. When Bucky didn’t follow, Steve turned to him. “You ok?” he breathed, his heart pounding.

It was as if Bucky had seen a ghost.

“Bucky?” Steve went to him, a hand reaching to-- Bucky shoved him away with enough force for Steve to hit the wall behind him, hard enough to crack the concrete.

For a second, Steve forgot how to breathe all over again. He stared up at Bucky; at his shoulders as they rose and fell as he breathed in huge silent gasps, like every breath would be his last.

“That man was right,” Steve said, and it took everything in him not to push himself from the wall and place a hand on Bucky’s back. “They should have sent someone else.”

“I-” Bucky didn’t look at him, didn’t take his eyes from whatever distant ghost was haunting him. “I-I didn’t...” His breath caught in his throat and he was sobbing, he was crying and everything that could break in Steve, did.

Because this was Bucky with his guard down, when he cracked and let all that hurt expose itself.

“I’m going to touch you,” Steve said, breathless as he gingerly moved from the wall. He closed the space between them, a hand coming to rest gently on Bucky’s elbow and even though the light was dim, he saw the gleam in Bucky’s eyes, the glint of tears as they traveled down his cheeks. He shoulders trembled as his breath came in wispy clouds as heat met cold air.

Steve swallowed against the tightness that had been building in his throat as he breathed in a shaky breath. “You survived,” he whispered, a hand coming up to gently cup Bucky’s chin and turn his head so that their eyes could meet, “and you don’t have to go back there.”

\--

They wandered deep into the base, looking for any weapons or signs of life, but finding none.

“I’ll write to Peggy, let her know that the place is empty and now SHIELD property.”

“How will we get back?”

“I’ll carry you.”

The answer came so nonchalantly that Steve was thrown off a bit.

“You remember our serums are similar? We can do the same things now.”

A shrug. “I’m still gonna carry you.” And he picked Steve up like a bride on her wedding night, and carried him back to the safehouse.


	16. Boyhood's Fire in My Blood

“I hate my body.”

Steve stood by the low window. Their safehouse was an old bunker, it’s windows built close to the ground to avoid detection. He was shirtless, but had a blanket thrown over his shoulders, a mug of hot chocolate with orange peel and vodka in his hand. He set the mug on the window ledge and sat on the bed, the blanket falling off with the sudden downward movement.

Bucky walked in from the kitchen to sit behind Steve.

“But everything’s different now. You’ve got-”

“This isn’t like back then, when I was Saoirse Gormflaith. I’m inadequate, I’m Erskine’s failure. Look at me! I don’t look strong or fast or like I heal quickly at all. The only thing Erskine’s serum did was made me feel like who I really am. Made me feel like Steve.”

“Are you on your period? Do I need to give you my blanket and get you chocolates and roses to make you feel better?”

Steve glared at him. “I had a hysterectomy after the war.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? Wouldn’t that help you feel more...like you?”

“Yes,” Steve said it too quickly, as he turned to face Bucky, “but it means that you can never have what you’ve always wanted.”

“I don’t care about that anymore. That dream died a long time ago, when you told me who you really are. When my Ma evened out that haircut you gave yourself. You were what, twelve? Yeah, ‘cause I was thirteen. You started binding that year, using those two year old reducers. I remember rescuing you from the Albertson boys, Ralph and Walter. They were beating you up ‘cause they didn’t like girls with no titties. Of course, you were never any girl. And when your Ma died, you donated all your old clothes, right before we moved from Bed-Stuy back to Red Hook. It was rough, that first year.” Bucky smiled. “I’m also a failure, a failed weapon of Hydra.”

“Hm.”

“So we two failures, we’ll return and kill Zola. Would that help you feel better, seeing me avenged?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, that would help.”

“I’ll include it in my letter to Peggy.”


	17. And When I Die, Bury Me

It was good to be back home. They could finally accomplish their goal: kill Zola and end Hydra. And they would go through Peggy to do it.

Zola worked in the same building as Bucky, so Steve went to the New York Bell Company Office to handle everything. Steve took the doctor to an alley, where Bucky was waiting.

“You got your gun?”

Bucky showed Steve his Baby Browning in answer. Steve held Zola against a building in the alley as Bucky stood at the opposite end, his gun aimed at the doctor’s head.

“Any last words, Zola?” His heart beat faster, he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He steadied his hand as he lined up his gun with the man’s head. _Finally, some peace._

The doctor was defiant. “Cut off one head, two more shall take it’s place.”

BANG

The doctor had jerked his head to the side, causing the bullet to lodge in the brick wall.

“Damn. Keep him still, Stevie!”

“I’m trying!”

“Hail Hydra!”

BANG

“Jeez, Buck, ya couldn’t have gotten a silencer?”

Steve let go of Zola’s body, keeping clear of the brain-and-blood splattered brick behind him. The lifeless corpse fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.

“What’ll we do with him?” Steve haunched over the body. The doctor’s glasses had remained on his head, crushed and cracked when he hit the cement. Bucky joined Steve, careful not to get too close to Steve and risk getting blood and brains on his suit.

“Take him to Ivchenko.”

Steve looked at him incredulously.

“As a warning.” As relieved as he was that Zola was dead, he wanted to get some revenge on Ivchenko as well.

They left Zola’s body outside of Ivchenko’s cell, as a reminder of what they could do to him.


	18. You Haven’t An Arm

“I hate this thing, you know.”

Steve turned from the pot he had been minding, frowning at the statement he had just heard. “You don’t mean that, do you?”

Bucky was sitting opposite the stove, in one of the chairs that had been pulled up to the wall. His shirt was off, along with the net, he was watching the plates shift as he moved his arm. He looked up when Steve spoke.

“Oh no, I mean it. I really do despise this sometimes.”

“Why not ask Stark-”

“Stark is married now, to a woman named Maria. Never thought he would, but there you have it. Now he’s too busy to bother with me, between his inventions and his wife. Everyone’s married now; Peggy and Gabe, Dum Dum, Howard--”

_Of course Stark would be busy with his wife, has Bucky been paying attention to our relationship?_ Steve wondered where Bucky was going with this, but offered another name. “August.”

“August?”

“I never told you?” Steve took on a smug tone. “August King, he was my Captain during the art program-”

“You know Corporeal King? I never woulda thought he’d get married. Thought he’d be like us, an eternal bachelor, ya know? Who’d he-”

Steve turned from the pot once more. “How do _you_ know August?”

“He was in my unit before the program picked him up. Got shot in the leg couple of months before, never walked the same after.”

Steve gave the pot a stir, his back to Bucky as he spoke. “He married an Aboriginal girl he met in Australia, Elanora. They live in Australia, he didn’t want to risk bringing her over.”

Bucky frowned. “What was he doing in Australia?”

“He was there for the remainder of the war, after being in the 603rd Camouflage Engineers, and leading the Howling Commandos. Imagine that. Captain America in Australia.”

“Yeah, musta been something.”

“He took my picture in London.” Steve wiped his hands on his apron, turned the stove off, and went to their room, returning with August’s photo.

“I meant to send it to you with a letter, but then the news came, so I kept it…” he passed the picture to Bucky.

Bucky took the photo with his left hand, smiling. “Steve, I’ve never seen you look more patriotic than in this moment.” He gave the photo back, passing it from left hand to right.

“You sap.” Steve leaned in to kiss him. He rubbed his nose against Bucky’s, felt him smile against his lips, but then he thought about what Bucky had said before. His brows knit together as he leaned back a little and asked, “Why do you hate your arm so much?”

“Because it reminds me of the war, and Hydra, and Zola and Ivchenko and all the others. I can’t set foot in the research department without being brought back to those places. SHIELD hired Richard, he brought me to Oymyakon. I can’t be near him without going back there in my mind.”

Steve felt his blood slowly begin to boil. He had the unquenchable desire to kill this man, who had tortured Bucky and caused him unspeakable pain.

“Well, have you tried removing it?” Steve made his voice sound as calm as possible, despite the fury he still felt.

“That could be potentially fatal. Who would respect a one-armed man?”

“I would.” Steve meant it. “Have you ever tried?”

“No. Howard conducted a thorough examination when I first came back. It can’t be removed, it’s grafted into my nervous and muscle systems. Removing it would permanently and irreparably damage those systems. I’ve already suffered possible brain damage, I don’t need anymore bodily trauma.”

Steve pulled up the other chair, sitting in front of his love. He put a hand to the back of Bucky’s head, pressing their foreheads together. “You know what,” he said, resting a hand on Bucky’s hip, “I love you, arm and all.” He pressed their lips together for a moment. “And if you want,” he said, lifting his head and running a hand through Bucky’s thick hair, “I’ll design a new arm for you, and have Stark make it.”


	19. Great Is Rose Wine

The next time they spoke about such serious matters was December twenty-eighth, two days before New Year’s.

Bucky came home late that night. Steve heard the door close and greeted him, but when he went to kiss him, he pulled his hands back from Bucky’s neck upon seeing his face.

“What happened?!”

“Nothing, just fell, that’s all.” He set his briefcase on the table and took off his hat and suit jacket. His hands went to his tie, it was loosened and removed from his neck.

“‘Nothing, just fell?’ What, did you fall on your face? Sit down, tell me what happened.” Steve went to him again, hands reaching to guide him down to a chair.

“I’m fine, don’t touch me.” Bucky said with a pained grimace as he swatted Steve away, and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hey, go into the bedroom if you’re gonna do that, I’ve got dinner to make and the curtains aren’t drawn.” Steve pulled the curtains closed as he spoke. “I’ll get you when it’s ready, ok?”

“Alright.” Bucky leaned down and kissed Steve’s cheek before disappearing into their room. Steve went back to chopping carrots for the soup. When it was boiling, he went to the door, knocking softly.

“Soup’s done, if you want any.”

He went back to the stove and dished out two bowls of soup, setting them on the table. The door swung open, and Bucky walked out wearing an old pair of pants and one of his training shirts. He half-sat, half-fell into his chair. Steve rounded the table, coming to stand in front of him.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“You didn’t come straight home after work. Where were you?” Steve placed his hand on his hips, acting and looking more like a concerned housewife than ever. The white of his shirt contrasted with the somewhat stained pale blue apron he wore. “Were you undercover at Sunny’s for work?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t drink.”

“Not a drop, Stevie.”

“So how did this happen?”

A sigh, a hand through his hair. “I got jumped outside Sunny’s. I was walking back from the bar, when three guys came outta nowhere. They musta seen my hat or shirt or boutonnière.”

Steve nodded, he had put a sprig of lavender in one of Bucky’s hats the other day, and made him a boutonnière of lavender, clover, white rose, and thistle. Both complemented the light grey suit nicely, and the light pink shirt completed the ensemble.

“I beat them, but they ended up getting a few good licks in.” His lip started bleeding afresh. Steve went to the sink and filled a bowl with warm water, placing a rag to soak in the tepid liquid. He brought the bowl back to the table, setting it down by Bucky as he pulled his chair up. Steve wrung out the cloth, applying it gently to Bucky’s lip and left eye, which was caked in a crust of dried blood.

“You took care of me, I’ll take care of you.” He said, gently rubbing at the bloodied flesh, careful not to cause Bucky any more pain. “This it? You didn’t break anything?” He jabbed a finger at Bucky’s ribs.

“Ow! No, nothing’s broken, not that I can feel at least.”

“We should get you out of the country.”

A snort. “Where would we go?”

“Home?”

“You and I have different homes, pal. And you’ve already been to England.” Bucky grinned.

“So I can show you the sights.” Steve countered, picking up the cloth and rubbing gently at Bucky’s eye.

“Alright, we’ll start with your home. Belfast first.”

“Your’s. Edinburgh or London.”

“I insist we begin with Belfast. Northern Ireland’s not big, it won’t take too long. Ow.” Bucky winced as Steve applied the wrung-out cloth to his eye again.

“Sorry. What’ll we call ourselves?” Steve asked.

“Jamie Brodie.”

“That’s pretty close to your given name.” Steve pointed out.

“And you are-?” Bucky asked, ignoring Steve’s comment.

“Lorcán Halloran.”

“And your name rhymes, so we’re even.”


	20. The Belle of Belfast City

They left after New Year’s, 1954. Their flight to an airfield in Lisburn wasn’t as long as their flight to Germany. Steve slept while Bucky stayed awake, keeping watch over the small blond.

All of their accommodations were provided by SHIELD. It was one of the perks of having living with someone who worked for the government. But they had also tried to get as far from the States as possible. It was a dangerous time for everyone, but for Communists and queer folks especially. And they hurried to get out, as queer as they were.

Dinner the next evening was at the Whitehall Restaurant. Afterward, they walked back to the hotel, their hands intertwined in the safety of darkness.


	21. Bibliography

This is a list of all the sources I used in writing this monstrosity of a fic, because I am a history nerd.

[Cigarettes and Smoking](http://cap-chronism.dreamwidth.org/6640.html) A great article which focuses on cigarettes and smoking within Cap fic. [Cigarettes and Their Impact in World War II](http://www.calstatela.edu/sites/default/files/groups/Perspectives/Vol37/37_blondia.pdf) A great document by Amarilla Blondia which gives great insight into the history of cigarettes during World War Two.

[The 1943 War Art Program](http://www.history.army.mil/armyhistory/AH55newOCR.pdf) A great article by Peter Harrington about the US Army's art program. The first sentence of Biddle's letter to Steve comes from this article, the rest of the letter I made up. [A Guide to the Study and Use of Military History, Chapter 14: The Army Art Program](http://usacac.army.mil/CAC2/cgsc/carl/download/csipubs/GuidetotheStudyandUseofMilitaryHistory.pdf) Marian R. McNaughton's chapter contains some great information about the art program as well, particularly pages 320-322.

[Peggy Carter, Gabe Jones, and Interracial Marriage in the 1950s](http://historicalagentcarter.tumblr.com/post/92832084238/peggy-carter-gabe-jones-and-interracial-marriage) This is what inspired me to include Peggy and Gabe's relationship within the story.

[1943 Profile of the South Brooklyn, Brooklyn area](http://assets.documentcloud.org/documents/347427/bk08-profile.pdf) The map of Red Hook that I referenced while writing about New York.

[Map of London 1](http://www.maps-of-london.com/city-west-6.jpg) [Map of London 2](http://www.maps-of-london.com/city-west-12.jpg) I referenced these while writing about London.

[Dog tags](http://luninosity.tumblr.com/post/133415713764) [Bucky Barnes - A Good Anglican Boy](http://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/post/103877645380) Both of these posts influenced me when writing about religion. The second one helped me to formulate my headcanon regarding the Barneses' ancestry; I believe that they're Anglo-Scottish, George is English and Winnifred is Scottish. I'll probably elaborate more on it in a post someday.

[Red Hook Churches](http://maggieblanck.com/BrooklynRedHook/Churches.html) Steve's church in Red Hook is Christ Chapel. This site has a lot of great resources for mid to late 1800s Red Hook, so some things could apply to Cap fic set in 1930s-1940s Red Hook.

[We Regret to Inform You…](http://redrikki.tumblr.com/post/99657531229) A great post about death telegrams during WWII. I based Bucky's death telegram off of the Army example in this post.

[Eye modification](http://secretlytodream.tumblr.com/post/150920083443) This post inspired me to include an eye modification surgery when Bucky arrives at Oymyakon.

[Hydra's Activation Words For The Winter Soldier](http://sabacc.tumblr.com/post/143738730132) The words from the third movie, translated by an actual Russian person.

[Source of Bucky's dick joke](http://stuckythorki.tumblr.com/post/151790049844) I couldn't resist putting this in, it's just too good.

[Source of Steve's dick joke](http://hereiamagain-rockbottom.tumblr.com/post/142591544190) This was just the prefect thing for Steve to say. Originally from Donnie Darko.

[Jockeying for Position: How Boxers and Briefs Got Into Men's Pants](http://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/how-boxers-and-briefs-got-into-mens-pants/) Hunter Oatman-Stanford's article for _Collector's Weekly_ mentions Army undershirts, and how they became popular after the war. [100 Years of Men’s Underwear…As Worn By a Woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gGYVLJVDA8) This video gives a really good look into the history of men's underwear; they also posted a video of their [research](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w6C2c0KhoG8).

The Monuments Men

This area gets it's own section, because I did so much research into the Monuments Men's work within Neuschwanstein, that I'm fairly confident that I could write an entire book on the subject.

[Where the Nazis Hid Their Art: The Castle Behind ‘Monuments Men’](http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/02/08/where-the-nazis-hid-their-art-the-castle-behind-monument-men.html) Nina Strochlic's article is quite good, focusing mainly on the Monuments Men, but also giving a little history about Ludwig II at the end. [Neuschwanstein: A fairy tale darling's dark Nazi past](http://www.dw.com/en/neuschwanstein-a-fairy-tale-darlings-dark-nazi-past/a-17442885#nomobile) Lori Herber's article combines, as so many do, the history of the Monuments Men with the George Clooney movie. It's still very well written, and worth a read. [The paintings behind the Monuments Men cover](http://www.monumentsmen.com/blog/2014/06/18/the-paintings-behind-the-monuments-men-cover/3797/) This talks about the paintings in perhaps the most famous photo of the Monuments Men, taken on the steps of Neuschwanstein. [National Archives Announces Discovery of "Hitler Albums" Documenting Looted Art](https://www.archives.gov/press/press-releases/2008/nr08-22.html) The 39 albums that the Monuments Men found in Neuschwanstein were eventually given the National Archives. [The Real Monuments Men at the Archives of American Art](http://www.artinamericamagazine.com/news-features/previews/the-real-monuments-men-at-the-archives-of-american-art/) While Sarah Cascone's article is interesting, I used the photo and caption on the left of the article as inspiration for Steve's work within the castle. [This](https://monumentsgirl.wordpress.com/tag/neuschwanstein/) is the Neushwanstein tag from the blog of Sarah Rorimer, the granddaughter of Monuments Man James J. Rorimer, who has retraced her grandfather's footsteps all over Europe. [ Monuments Men: On the Front Line to Save Europe's Art, 1942–1946](http://www.aaa.si.edu/exhibitions/monuments-men) Photos of the Monuments Men, including some from Neushwanstein. More [ photos](http://www.aaa.si.edu/collections/items/Neuschwanstein) of the Monuments Men at Neushwanstein. [Operation Honor: Neuschwanstein Castle, Part 1—The History](http://operationhonor2014.blogspot.com/2014/06/operation-honor-neuschwanstein-castle.html?m=1) The historical part of a two-part post from a blog written by the granddaughters (or daughters?) of one of the Monuments Men. Pages 3 and 7-12 of Major Edward E. Adam's article [Looted Art Treasures Go Back to France](http://obs-traffic.museum/sites/default/files/ressources/files/Adams_Looted_art_treasures_go_back.pdf) offers one of the most detailed accounts of the packing and return of stolen art from the castle. [The Real-Life Story Behind "The Monuments Men"](http://www.history.com/news/the-real-life-story-behind-the-monuments-men) by Christopher Klein contains a single sentence about the castle, but offers some interesting information nonetheless. ["Salt Mines and Castles: The Discovery and Restitution of Looted European Art"](https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=wu.89050449172;view=2up;seq=1;skin=mobile) by Thomas Carr Howe, Jr. remains one of the best books on the titular subject. Originally published a year after the war ended, this book is ten chapters of European art hunting. Chapter eight is all about Neushwanstein. [ Hunting Hitler's Stolen Treasures: The Monuments Men](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W2MSmogbyC8) This documentary combines movie clips with interviews from professionals and experts. 33:00 - 33:30 and 36:40 - 37:54 specifically mention Neushwanstein. The Rape of Europa is based on the Lynn Nicholas book of the same name. This two-hour long documentary tells of the Nazi plunder of Europe's artwork, as well as the efforts by the Monuments Men to restore these works to their rightful owners. Unfortunately, the YouTube link I had was taken down by the owner of the video, and I haven't been able to find it from a reliable site. It was on Netflix, but they took it down as well. If I do find a reliable link, I will add it. [Allies Seize German Loot & Criminals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MNLxUOxJXIY) A newsreel from April 6th, 1945, where 1:41 - 2:07 have to do with the castle. [The Monuments Men](https://putlockerhd.co/watch?v=The_Monuments_Men_2014#video=lh_EEpdO_TPK-PN1EH8QJDZjzqgZLiC1zOlUdsY82Ys) is a great movie with an outstanding cast that tells a version of the Monuments Men story. Names of many characters have been changed. Unfortunately, this link does not include subtitles.

I also made two mixtapes inspired by this work. The [first](http://8tracks.com/valkyrieshieldmaiden/war-s-glorious-art) one is the story itself, while the [second](http://8tracks.com/valkyrieshieldmaiden/the-roots-of-culture) uses all the folksongs that were the chapter titles.

This bibliography wouldn't be complete without acknowledgements to those fics that inspired me through the writing process. The first is glitteratiglue's [the earth lives dimly in our bodies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4741814), a great fic about the Howlies dealing with the deaths of their leader and his second-in-command. Spiderfire's [The Tech](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1919553) was my main inspiration for Richard. [Room's Still Spinning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8247310) by hollybennett123 really gives an insight into what Bucky and Steve's relationship might have looked like before the war. It was an inspiration for my chapter twelve.


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